


Some Sunny Day

by ThrillingDetectiveTales



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, Tank AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThrillingDetectiveTales/pseuds/ThrillingDetectiveTales
Summary: “I, uh. I didn’t think I was going to see you again.”“Yeah,” Nixon agreed, half-breathless. He staggered forward, just a step but it was something. “Yeah, neither did I. Is it - ” He stopped, shook his head, and it was as if that small motion shattered the shell around him because his whole body relaxed, mouth tilting up into a smirk on one side. His voice was low and fond when he spoke, almost awed. “What are you doing here, Dick?”Dick shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the sink. “Saving your ass, apparently.”
Relationships: Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45
Collections: Heavy Artillery Rolling Remix 2020





	Some Sunny Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Heavy Artillery Rolling Remix.

Bastogne was a ghost town when Company C of the 37th Tank Division finally breached the city’s perimeter a little after 1600 hours. They had been depleted by more than half their number, with only Cobra King, the leading tank, Chesterfield, and Coldhearted Caroline surviving alongside Dick’s own Sherman, which had been dubbed Cockfight by its original commanding officer. Dick rather despised the inherited title, though he had grown to appreciate the rooster emblem painted on the side of the turret as well as the crew, who had shown him nothing but respect since he was shuffled into the open role of navigator fresh off the replacement depot. They were in bad shape, with an ominous clanking noise rattling through the exhaust every few minutes and Cockfight’s left track threatening to slip off her road wheels with every painful inch they limped forward, but by some miracle they had survived. 

Bastogne hadn't fared much better. The city had been stripped down to its bones, its quaint thoroughfares reduced to so much rubble by Luftwaffe strafing the night before last. There was smoke still streaming in lazy, sporadic gouts from hulking piles of split beam and brick that had once been buildings. All manner of debris crumbled underfoot, scraping and catching against Cockfight’s belly hatch as they lumbered along.

“Well boys,” Lieutenant Barbetti’s thickly accented voice came crackling through the earphones of Dick’s helmet. He sounded just as dog-tired as Dick felt, underneath the swaggering lilt of his usual fierce New Jersey pride. “We gave those Jerrys a proper kick in the what-for, eh?”

There was a chorus of responses, Dick’s subdued, “Hear, hear!” lost under his own men whooping and whistling and slapping their hands hard against the hull’s interior. Similar sounds of celebration echoed from the other three tanks in the line. Dick was pretty sure he heard one of the fellows in Coldhearted Caroline, all the way at the back, holler, “Take that, you Kraut sons of bitches!” which was fairly tame as Army invective went. Considering that the boys in Coldhearted Caroline rarely wanted for a foul word to say, the lack of creativity spoke volumes to the exhaustion the whole company was suffering.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” Barbetti said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Dick could see him just ahead, leaning cautiously up out of Cobra King’s turret with his binoculars at the ready, on the lookout for opportunistic German anti-tank forces or snipers that might’ve snuck past them on their way in. “Steady on to division HQ. We’ll regroup there. Give the 101st a chance to catch their breath for the first time in a goddamn month.”

Dick’s stomach twisted a little, like it always did at any mention of the Screaming Eagles, but he pushed the familiar anxieties out of his mind before they had a chance to take root. This was not the time nor the place to indulge in bittersweet nostalgia, no matter how tempting it may be. Dick startled at the sudden pressure of a hand against his leg, shifting back so he could peer down at PFC Howard Heeger—Beaver to his friends, despite Dick's best efforts—where he was craning around in the gunner’s seat, face screwed up in thought on one side and brown curls stuck fast against his forehead with sweat.

“What d’you figure, Lieutenant?” Beaver asked, sticky Virginia drawl slurring his words. “I got a dollar says the paratroops’ll have a big ol’ shindig waiting for us.”

Dick snorted through his nose and shook his head, smirking. “Private,” he said soberly, “these men have been cut off from our supply lines for weeks. I wouldn’t take that bet even if I did gamble.”

“Right,” Beaver nodded. He turned back around, heaving a dramatic sigh and shaking his head. “Awful dark times we’re living in, when a fella’s reduced to eating party fixings to survive.”

That was enough to get D’Angiolo and Mizner started up, which meant it was only a matter of time before Hank felt likewise obligated to assert his own opinion, Beaver merrily encouraging them every step of the way. By the time they rolled into place next to the remainder of C Company outside one of the few free-standing buildings left in the thoroughly brutalized city center, Dick could hardly hear himself think over the cacophony of amiable squawking. He pulled himself up out of the turret and leaned over to lend Beaver a hand once he found his footing on the hull.

“Aw,” Beaver said with an exaggerated frown the moment his head breached the open air. “I thought maybe they’d’a done up some streamers, at least.”

Dick rolled his eyes and tugged Beaver up, slapping him on the shoulder in gentle rebuke. “Get a move on, Private. Before Lieutenant Barbetti marks us absent from our own daring rescue.”

Beaver grinned, effected a sloppy salute, and jumped down onto the cobbles, strolling toward the CP with his hands in his pockets and a whistle on his breath. Dick waited around to help the rest of the guys disembark, except for Hank, who shimmied his narrow frame out through the driver’s hatch and nearly fell face first into the street when he got his bootlace caught on the release latch.

The building that housed the CP looked like it had been some kind of hotel—the lobby was finely furnished in rich, woven textiles and dark woods, with a set of twin chandeliers glowing overhead. The unshaven, grease-spattered, snow-bitten infantrymen crowding into every corner looked remarkably out of place. Dick reached up, suddenly self-conscious, and smoothed his hair back as best as he could. Not that it would do much good after the better part of sixty hours spent stuck under a helmet, but it was the principle of the thing. 

He was glad for the moment of vanity a few short minutes later, when a casual glance around the CP revealed a familiar shock of dark hair on a figure slouching against the far wall. He was well on his way to a full beard, with dark, blue-tinged circles around his eyes, mouth a stark, chapped frown in his blanched face, but Dick felt certain that would have recognized Lewis Nixon anywhere, no matter his state of disarray.

Dick’s heart drummed, hard and sudden, against his ribs, and he started to pick his way over. He shuffled past a bespectacled sergeant who didn’t even seem to notice him and murmured, “Pardon me,” to a heavily freckled technician with a bloodspattered medic’s armband on display, but he didn’t make it far before Brigadier General McAuliffe was calling the room to attention.

Dick did his damnedest to focus, nodding along with McAuliffe’s every impassioned rally and clapping when prompted by the crowd around him, but his gaze kept slipping over to where Nixon was blatantly resisting the infectious fighting spirit that had started to swell through the room, offering the occasional half-hearted clap but more often rolling his eyes or muttering under his breath. Dick wasn’t looking when Nixon finally cottoned to his presence, but he felt the weight of Nixon’s attention prickle like a spark down the back of his neck, raising gooseflesh in its wake.

He swallowed around the knot threatening at the back of his throat and licked his lips. When he looked over, Nixon was sheet-white under his dark hair, eyes wide and so liquid dark at this distance that they looked black, like ink. His mouth had fallen open, twitching now and again like a fish on the riverbank resigned to its fate. Dick’s chest tightened, breath going shallow and sharp.

He risked a smile and was rewarded by a bright, hot flush that bled across the bridge of Nixon’s nose in an obvious wave. Dick ducked his head, pressing his lips together so that he wouldn’t be caught beaming at the floor, and returned his attention to the brigadier general, who was ushering the next speaker into place on the raised stage in the corner. He straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders back, and took a deep, slow breath. It would just be a few minutes, he reasoned. He would stick out the military chatter and then, after it was all said and done, he could slip through the crowd without scrutiny and indulge as much of a reunion as Nixon—and public propriety—would allow him.

This turned out to be easier said than done. Dick felt like a beehive with a firecracker stuffed inside it. He was hot head to toe and his whole body was buzzing, fingers twitching against his thighs as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He kept his gaze on the stage for as long as he could manage, but couldn’t resist flicking a glance out of the corner of his eye every now and again, just to make certain that Nixon was still there. He was, every time that Dick let himself look, and wearing the same gobsmacked expression, though he was at least feigning attention to the address now.

As subtle as Dick thought he was being, it wasn’t enough, because a spare few minutes had passed before D’Angiolo elbowed him gently in the ribs and muttered out the side of his mouth, “Pisser’s ‘round back.”

Dick felt his face flush with heat, burning out to the tips of his ears. He opened his mouth to bluster a protest, realized what he was about to do, and then snapped it shut again. D’Angiolo appeared altogether too entranced by the officer up front to have noticed, so Dick cleared his throat, murmured, “Thanks,” and made his retreat. 

He caught Nixon’s eye as he turned, letting his gaze linger for a long second before he tore it away and summoned a polite smile for the man behind him as he shuffled around. “Excuse me.”

There was, in fact, a discreet restroom around the side of the building, with a handful of stalls and three neat but age-worn sinks. Dick walked to the furthermost one, footfalls ringing on the tile flooring, and nearly collapsed against it. He gave the cold water knob an aggressive twist and then ducked his hands under the faucet, letting water pool in his palms until he had enough to splash against his overheated face. When he straightened up again, Nixon was hovering in the doorway, hands in front of his chest like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them.

Dick curled his own over the lip of the sink and gave himself a moment to just look. Facial hair and non-regulation waves aside, Nixon appeared much as Dick remembered him. A little thinner, perhaps, and a little paler, and undoubtedly in need of a good scrubbing, but his plush mouth and hooded eyes and long, elegant fingers were the same. Dick licked his lips, sighed through his nose, and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Nixon echoed, in a swift, rugged rasp. He didn’t come any closer, didn’t move at all, in fact. 

He could be a painting, Dick thought, or a statue—all those shadows over his face with the light from beyond the door at his back. Or maybe a man trapped in a mirror, like something out of a fairytale. Whatever he was, Nixon remained standing there, stock still, and that didn’t show any signs of changing soon. Dick wanted to rush over to him, get his hands on him, see if he tasted the way Dick remembered after all these months apart. He settled for pushing up off the sink, squaring his shoulders, and turned to face Nixon instead. 

“I, uh. I didn’t think I was going to see you again.”

“Yeah,” Nixon agreed, half-breathless. He staggered forward, just a step but it was something. “Yeah, neither did I. Is it - ” He stopped, shook his head, and it was as if that small motion shattered the shell around him because his whole body relaxed, mouth tilting up into a smirk on one side. His voice was low and fond when he spoke, almost awed. “What are you doing here, Dick?”

Dick shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip against the sink. “Saving your ass, apparently.”

“Saving my - ” Nixon scoffed, but he was smiling. “Sure. Alright.” He raised both hands and ducked his head, giving a little mock-bow as he intoned, “All hail the conquering hero, in that case.”

Dick dipped his chin and held up a hand, like a king acknowledging his cheering subjects, and grinned when Nixon laughed.

“Glad to see it hasn’t gone to your head,” Nixon teased, meandering forward until he was barely an arm’s length away. He stopped in front of the other sink, shaking his head and letting his gaze wander from Dick’s face, down his body, and back up again. His eyes looked almost wet, voice ragged when he said, “God, it’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Dick breathed.

“I thought you were with the 2d,” Nixon said, expression soft and pained. “But - ”

“I was,” Dick interjected. Something in Nixon’s gaze pushed hard against a tender place in his chest and Dick had to look away as he continued. “I, uh. I took some shrapnel in Falaise. Laid me up for a while. By the time I got back - ” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug and managed to chip a grin in Nixon’s direction, one of those half-bitter, ‘what can you do?’ smiles that felt more like baring teeth, though he kept his eyes trained on the floor.

He didn’t care to talk about his injury—or his long convalescence, his time laid up in the replacement depot—with anyone, let alone the man who had charmed Dick out of his shorts within a few hours of meeting him so many months ago. A part of him, he wasn’t too proud to admit, had sort of been hoping that Nixon would try and pull the same trick again so that Dick could let himself fall for it. Even his limited experience was enough to confirm that bringing up new scars was not the best way to set any kind of mood.

Nixon was silent for a long moment, and Dick’s stomach sank nearer to his toes with every passing second.

It had been foolish, coming out here, luring Nixon with him. What had he expected was going to happen with nearly a hundred other men less than a stone’s throw away, every one of them eager to slap a blue ticket on any fellow they found gumming morale up with their indecent urges? He opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could get a word out Nixon’s fingers were slipping under the cuff of Dick’s sleeve, tugging him forward.

“Well,” Nixon said, when Dick looked up. His smile was just as sweet as Dick remembered. “Looks like your misfortune is my lucky break, huh?”

The kiss was short, and hard, and the heat of it made Dick’s mouth tingle. He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he had to open them again, sucking a shaky breath past his teeth and quivering all the way out to his fingertips. He could feel Nixon’s breath on his cheek, warm and wet and more than a little ripe, though Dick couldn’t find it in himself to care. The man had been living out of a hole in the ground for a month, for God's sake. It was no big surprise that dental hygiene hadn’t been his topmost priority.

Dick could feel himself staring, drinking in every plane and angle of Nixon’s face, the elegant curve of his long, dark eyelashes, the supple bow of his mouth. A rousing cheer echoed at a distance, fuzzy and soft like a breaking wave. Dick jumped and stepped away and Nixon let him go, his arm falling back down to his side.

“We ought to get back,” Nixon said. He was still looking at Dick, like he was afraid Dick might disappear if he turned his head.

“Yeah,” Dick breathed.

“After,” Nixon said, gaze dark and intent, “we’ll talk. Yeah?” There was something sharp and brittle in his tone, some thin spine of desperation piercing all the way through his words to hang in the air like a waiting blade.

“Yeah,” Dick promised. He reached up to squeeze Nixon’s wrist, delighting in the flood of color that rolled out to the tips of Nixon’s ears, staining his skin with the heat of his desire. “After.”

Nixon nodded once, quick, and turned on his heel to head for the door. Dick glanced over to the mirror at his side, straightened the lapel of his coveralls, and followed.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sink Like a Bird](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221494) by [fiorediloto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiorediloto/pseuds/fiorediloto)




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